


Shrapnel

by ignusphoenicis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - Military, Caretaker Castiel, Depressed Dean, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 10:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3847279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignusphoenicis/pseuds/ignusphoenicis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an explosion in the Middle Eastern desert, First Sergeant Dean Winchester and his fiance Castiel Novak must navigate through the minefield of maintaining a relationship in the throes of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. </p><p>An immense amount of credit to my roleplay partner, Zombiegrits, for helping me construct this beautiful tale and providing me with a Castiel that beats all other Castiels in the universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Depression, War, PTSD, Anxiety. I will always post trigger warnings before each chapter, don't worry. 
> 
> I look at you all like my beta readers, so please feel free to post any corrections/errors you may have!

_1.)_ _September 19 th. Six months. 4:30 pm. San Diego, California._

The sticky sun of a late September afternoon beat down.

It was as if it was trying to squeeze the last bit of summer into the year, eking out the remainder of intense heat that it had to offer, because the last two days had been _hot_. Normally, Castiel liked warm days, as his body was one of those types that grew cold rather quickly and pathetically, but nowadays, they were fraught with tension. Heat was not good for Dean.

Castiel could feel his back wrenching and wrenching with the stiffness of steel as the sweat seeped through the dirty fabric of his t-shirt. His neck would definitely be sunburnt later today—did they still have that aloe vera? If not, he supposed he could go buy some…maybe after Dean fell asleep, or maybe he could come along. If it was one of those days.

At last, Castiel dropped his trowel and stood up from the flower bed, his blue eyes squinting in the last press of heat of the afternoon. He had been gardening since noon, perhaps to give him something to do, perhaps to keep him from realizing that he could not do anything else. Every muscle in his thinning body ached with satisfaction, dirt and soil caking what felt like every single crevice of his body. He would need a shower. Another twenty minutes occupied by something. Shower, perhaps the store, cooking dinner, eating dinner, cleaning up after dinner, bathing Dean, getting him ready for bed, bed.

Another day.

But, right now was still right now, and there was a man who was called his fiancé sitting in a chair up on the porch who might need something, so there was a smile on Castiel’s face in the smallest fragment of seconds, because that was something he was good at these days.

Castiel bore a sheet of sweat from the sun’s rays as he approached Dean. It accentuated the bronze of his skin, his lean arms, and now he was coming closer. He smelled of sunscreen and hard work and loomed over Dean with love and care, love and care which took the form of a kiss dropped gently on Dean’s forehead—always so cautious on his part, as he was handling precious cargo. “How’s that lemonade today, sweetheart? Not too tangy this time?”

Castiel watched as his boyfriend, his fiancé, the love of his life let his head tilt back slowly, as if it were being operated mechanically. Dean’s movement these days was either stiffly mechanical like this or frantic, manic, induced by some vision he found in his head to be threatening.

He understood that he would never understand. Dean, his Dean, his precious love, was gone. Dead. Left behind in that desert that stole so many lives and souls. Castiel had known something had been the matter the minute the he answered the phone. The Marines didn’t send its soldiers home unless something was really wrong.

And, boy, was something really wrong.

After World War I, they called it Shell Shock. The boys from the trenches coming home to their wives and mothers and children half or a quarter of what they had been. Their days were stained with visions, hallucinations, dreams of their fallen brothers writhing with poison gas and toil.

These days, they called it Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Was he going to get an answer from Dean? Sometimes, the man acted as if he didn’t hear things—or maybe he actually didn’t. Often times Dean was off in the world of his head, which was often much safer than the world of the present, if they were honest. He didn’t know where his fiancé went and he didn’t know if he necessarily wanted to. But he wished that he didn’t go so often.

As it was, they had been having a good day. A relatively good day, anyway. Castiel had been able to get Dean out of bed because it’s such a nice day, darling. He’d promised that they could eat breakfast and sit in the sun, and didn’t that sound nice? So maybe, just maybe, Dean would respond.

The slow blink of those green eyes which were no longer the lively lily pads of the man he once knew but the grainy grime of an overgrown grave. “Mm,” came Dean’s gravel voice as the man dropped from the world of his head to the present. “No. ‘S good. Thanks.’’

He would take it. Conversation was no longer something that Dean kept as a skill, leaving it to Castiel to perpetuate.

And he almost didn’t. He almost kept from doing so on the notion that, perhaps, Dean had no incentive to speak, and certainly not for the courteous fact that Castiel did. It was an ugly thought which could sprout into self-deprecation, one which needed to be smothered before it festered into something ugly and cancerous.

Castiel’s swallow was a hard. Dry. He pulled back from Dean’s face to stand straight up, the shadow of his thinning body casting a darkness over Dean, a darkness which he grimly associated as affinitive. But then, he playfully snatched the completely untouched glass of lemonade from Dean’s forgotten grasp and took a sip. The cool condensation and the splash of refreshing drink down his throat and innards had him humming with the smallest smile, which, one day, may have been taken as cocky.

He must look like such an ass.

“This _is_ good, I must say,” he gloated lightly, realizing full well that his attempt to lure Dean into conversation was as vain as trying to put out the sun on his own. Castiel laid it back in Dean’s grasp for his own sake. “So, I was thinking…perhaps you would like to come to town with me today? Seems a shame to waste the nice day out, especially before autumn comes in. Doesn’t It? Sweetheart…?”

Dean seemed to be occupied with the lemonade in his hand, as if he finally just noticed it was there. It would take another connection that might be above his fiancé’s capacity right now, those tortured green eyes staring down at the cool glass like it held all the secrets in the world. That ginger stubble was growing back in again—had it always grown so fast? Castiel would have to shave him again. Maybe tonight, when he helped him bathe.

“Town…” he seemed to finally toy with the notion, eyes glancing back up at Castiel, but at Castiel’s chin. Good enough. “Yeah. Alright.”

“Only if you want to.” Castiel was quick to remind him. He was careful like that, or at least he tried to be. It wasn’t a bed of eggshells so much as a minefield, under which various traps and painful ruses were lain. Some were innocuous mousetraps, a slight pinch on his toes and others were explosions. Some were failures, which only made noise and caused no physical [ain other than a racing heart.

Then again, he imagined Dean’s minefield, the _real_ minefield, and then swallowed harder.

That wasn’t to say that Dean really had an affinity for violence, which was something that he had to take as a triumph. When he did get physical, it usually came from sleepwalking, his gorgeous fiancé’s mind still stuck back in the guerilla warfare of an Afghanistan desert. And that was _definitely_ not to say that Castiel couldn’t handle these tendencies. Maybe he was small, but he wasn’t weak. He wasn’t a house wife, for Christ’s sake, he was a grown ass man. But in sleep, that was when one was most vulnerable. That’s when the worst of things happened, things which caused Dean to shut down and act out and Castiel would find himself hugging his fiancé to his own chest, rocking him, shushing him, urging him to calm down, darling, you’re here with me, remember?

Those were the land mines that Castiel needed to avoid.

“Well, then. I need to take a quick shower, I’m covered in dirt.” He took Dean’s free hand, the squeeze of his fingers gentle. “Do you want to come inside or stay out here? If you stay, I’ll need to get some sunscreen on you.” A quick glance at his cheeks. “Though you’re looking good with some color.”

Castiel had to wonder if Dean resented this sort of babying or whether he even figured what was happening. The Dean that had left on that plane with the smirk and the dancing eyes would have vomited on Castiel’s shoes at this conversation. Urging, goading, washing, feeding, comforting cleaning…that had been their lives the past six months since he was wheeled off of that damn plane in a gurney. A month in the hospital while his shattered leg recovered and while they picked the pieces of shrapnel out of his skin. At least Dean could walk now, though not without a limp and delicate urges. Nothing was easy.

“I’ll come in,” Dean finally decided aimlessly as his eyes fell back down to his knees. Yeah, there it was, the lack of connection. Of course, he made no move to stand on his own, as it was Castiel’s job to get him out of the chair and up.

“Well, let’s go, then,” and he resisted the urge to chew off his own tongue as he took Dean’s glass and set it on the ground. He would get it later. “Come on…” He used most of his strength just to make the dead weight of his beautiful fiancé rise, and then he was kissing his temple and gently guiding him inside, one hand on the small of Dean’s back. Even if he didn’t have an extensive leg injury, Castiel knew that his walking would be just as labored. Everything was labored.

He idly filled the air between them with chatter as he lead Dean inside, gently closing the screen door. He talked about nothing and everything, only half aware of the mumbo jumbo that was spilling from his mouth. The words were there but the mind was in askance, always wandering to the plains of his own thought. None so vaporizing as Dean’s, of course, but enough to have his eyes glaze over while his tongue wagged on about how they could pick up some groceries to make a nice pasta, hmm? Maybe some ingredients to make an apple pie, wouldn’t that be nice, Dean?

It wasn’t as if Castiel wanted to escape for malice, or even resentment, but the six months have been grueling and not even the strongest flower could withstand a little wilting. He loved Dean, and that would never change. He knew that they were meant to be married. But it was _circumstance_ which held him back as opposed to anger. The situation rather than the person.

When was the last time they’d made love? When was the last time Dean had made him laugh? The last time they could snuggle on the couch without feeling the ever-present contracting and relaxing of tense muscles due to some trigger or another making the poor man seethe internally? When was the last time Castiel hadn’t felt alone?

Probably when Dean was on his deployment.

But he powered on. It was all he _could_ do. If Dean could, surely, he could. Surely.

“There we go,” he grunted as he helped Dean into the Laz-E-Boy recliner that had become Dean’s lifeblood. He crouched down and pulled the lever on the chair to release the footrest, gently pushing so that Dean could lie back with his feet up.

The living room was dark and quiet, like Dean preferred. It used to be bright and full of music or noise or laughter or dancing. He and Dean had bought this house a few years back, when Dean was fresh-faced and Castiel was full of promise. A young couple, happy and in love. Dean was a career Marine, bright-eyed and high off of his promotion to First Gunnery Sergeant, and Castiel was a writer. Well, a translator. An affinity for language at a young day had him multi-lingual, and for income he had always translated foreign language texts into English. Dean used to tease him and taunt him for being a “nerd,” Castiel sitting at his desk as he frowned and furiously scribbled an old phrase with one hand and typing with the other. And then Dean would poke and prod at him even more, asking when he would finally write his own book, because he wanted Castiel to.

Now, their bright little living room was dark and drab.

“Alright,” he said softly as he ran his fingers through Dean’s sandy hair, watching those blank eyes slip shut. Ruefully, he thought about how little difference it made whether Dean’s eyes were closed or open. Forcing a smile anyway for himself, he dragged a soft palm along his forehead. “Do you need anything before I take a shower, sweetheart?”

To his surprise, Dean seemed to realize that Castiel wanted to help and asked for some lemonade, and it was in feigned optimism that Castiel inhaled those words, Dean’s voice mellifluous enough to drink like tea and soothe his own sore throat. To be needed was his only satisfaction in these haywire days, and Castiel consumed it greedily, selfishly, and wholly. He berated his own desperation—because Castiel Novak was a respectable man, thank you very much—but not now. Not when Dean was still wanting, wanting Castiel in the only way he could anymore.

“More lemonade coming up,” he told him dutifully, thumbing the jut of his stubbly chin for only a moment because he could never be too needy or else he might croon. He left for the kitchen and returned with a glass of the stuff, carefully taking Dean’s hand and pressing the glass into it. “It’s cold, be careful,” he warned gently, like not forewarning him of such a thing could cause an attack. He wrapped Dean’s fingers around the glass, made sure that it was fastened in his grasp, and with his superficial satisfactions left, smiled. “Right,” he hummed, and then pressed a kiss to Dean’s forehead, right in between his closed and empty eyes. “I’ll be right back!”

Showers were some of his only solace in this cold and painful cage. Castiel stood there under the scalding stream, no longer smiles and gentility. No, he was a body with a soul, a half without a whole. Just a man, a man who didn’t know how strong he could be tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day. And he just stared at the drain, watching the water slip away and carry with it more seconds, hours, minutes. Time, it was all time. How much did they have? How much was wasting? The water scalded against his back, and it hurt, but it was warm contact, and that was not something he got too much of. It kept him alive, awake. He had to be awake. One of them had to be.

“Did you miss me?” It’s not really a question Castiel expected Dean to answer as he reemerged into the living room, dressed and ready. Dean was still in the same sweatpants and cardigan combo that Castiel had put him in this morning—soft clothes were the fashion—but he wouldn’t waste time changing his clothes into something more appropriate for public.

Dean hadn’t moved. He was still in that chair, eyes closed, face blank, and that lemonade was untouched in his hand. The corners of Castiel’s lips had to be tugged up with even more effort. “Didn’t want the lemonade after all, hm? That’s alright. Here, come on…” Castiel took it from Dean’s hand before helping him back up from the couch, groaning emphatically so as to nearly be comical with it. 

In a brief shiver of the gut he wondered if it seemed more insulting than amusing; Dean was not the strong man who left for war in the first place, not anymore. He was sallow, bony, only recently eating more often upon discovery that he was down twenty pounds. Castiel couldn’t think about it too long before he would wind up pulling hairs and hating himself furthermore for his own insensitivity. 

“Let’s go get you that pie, darling.” Like a man helping an elderly person cross the street, Castiel got a hand square on Dean’s back again and the other holding onto bony fingers, their shoulders touching and Dean’s pronounced limp seeming more and more labored with each step.

They were at the front porch when he heard their names being called by a voice from his dreams.

“ _Sam._ ” Too much emphasis in the name, too genuine in a smile in a world which disallowed smile. Castiel broke out with it like hives and as the youngest Winchester approached, and Castiel grabbed his arm, strong with it— _oh, so warm—_ and held him there as if he depended on it. Usually, he braced Dean in a bear hug, but the last time he tried had him shoved down the ground. They knew their distance now. 

“I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by,” he announced with a smile, one of the few people to ever give a timbering nature to his voice when around Dean. Most people heeded caution, but not Sam, not his own brother. “Did I catch you two at a bad time?” 

_Yes._


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions rise when Sam comes for dinner, as the youngest Winchester proves helpful to Castiel in a few too many ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Alcohol, Depression, PTSD, and a highly lascivious interaction.

_2\. September 19th, Six months, 5:26 pm, San Diego, California._

“No, no! We were merely about to go out for the store. Wouldn’t be gone for more than an hour, really.” But who wanted to wait for an hour, right? Castiel gave way to a desperate pause, heart stuttering hard in his rush to think, improvise, keep Sam here— and then— “Dean, why don’t you and Sam catch up while I go out and get the things we need for tonight?” 

It was a cheap move, surely, because they all knew there would be no “catching up” to do. Sam would talk and talk and talk and Dean would sit there and maybe offer up the occasional “mm” or aimless nod. But he needed groceries and Sam had to stay for a reason that he did not wish to think on too greatly because he might make himself sick.

After a few moments, Dean nodded silently as he stared out at the front yard, the grass withering and shrinking from neglect and Castiel had to winder what might he be thinking and seeing behind those retinas.

Castiel felt that angry stab of frustration—followed by guilt which might only be silenced by a wash of burning alcohol, but then there was a warm hand on the small of his back, the scary truth that Sam could read his mood by the clench of his jaw.

“No worries, Cas. I’m free all day,” replied Sam, because he wanted to help and that was more than Castiel ever thought he could ask for.

“Well, I shouldn’t be gone long,” he told them both in that saccharine tone of his, pulling away from Sam’s cozy touch far too long after he should have, and he held Dean in by his thinning waist as compensation. As guilt. A quick peck on the cheek and a jingle of the keys had Castiel flouncing toward the car with that too-large smile etched onto his cheeks. “You two make yourself comfortable!”

He wondered if Dean resented being told to make himself comfortable in his own home. He wondered if he even noticed. He watched as Sam laid a large hand in the space between Dean’s shoulder blades as he lead his brother back inside, sat there in the car for a moment, and then started the car to drive away.

The store went quickly enough. He picked up some noodles, some tomatoes and spices for homemade sauce, and all of the ingredients for apple pie and ice cream. Dean used to cook—he was the best cook between the three of them—but Castiel considered himself decent. He’d spent enough time baking pie after pie in a vague attempt at restoring that satisfied smile on Dean’s plush lips. It pained him to think about how much his fiancé used to laugh and grin and joke and dance. At every gathering, at every dinner party and night out, Dean would end up on the ground with Castiel on his back, showing off how many push-ups he could do with his fiancé’s weight. The epitome of physical perfection he had been, what with his muscles hardened and dense from years of military service. Now, it took a mountain to get Dean to walk up the stairs, that leg of his doomed forever.

“Oh, shit, I’ll help you.”

Immediately upon Castiel’s return, Sam was at the door, taking the burden of his several bags off of his hands. Dean was in his chair, leaned back in his position with his eyes closed. Did he even notice that Castiel was home?

_“Chivalry isn’t dead, Cas,” he said as he struggled through the door with every single grocery bag that they had bought that day._

_“It should be. And anyway, are you saying I’m the maiden?” replied Castiel as he pulled two of the bags away, and then smirked. “I don’t think that’s what we determine last night.”_

Yeah. Those were the days.

But here was Sam, large and in charge, helping Castiel with the bags into the kitchen. There was a wave of lurching want. Sam’s warmth and presence made Castiel see what he was missing from his fiancé.

The two men began to unload the groceries, a weighty and contentious silence holding tight between them. Castiel wished that he could give name or title to this sort of thing, or maybe he ought not to. To name it would establish its presence as something real rather than just a fabrication of want.

“So,” Sam finally said in a quiet voice, as if it mattered. Dean would not hear them anyway. “We caught up.”

“Did you glean anything new?” Castiel asked ruefully as he loaded the perishables into the refrigerator.

Sam gave a loud sigh, and Castiel found that he was almost jealous. He would feel too guilty to sigh. Too guilty to acknowledge the need to sigh. “No. Still nothing.”

“When is there ever anything else.” The words came out as weak as a dying man’s breath, but once they escaped Castiel’s lips he swore his chest was melting from the inside. He huffed out a sharp sigh and rubbed a hand between his eyebrows, pinching there tightly. “Christ, I apologize. That was disgusting. I’m—not right of mind, you have to forgive me. He’s your  _brother_  and I’m here… I’m…” 

“Hey, hey.” Sam slipped his palm along Castiel’s back in small circles, carefully modest but perhaps too tender. “I get it. It’s OK, Cas. You’re okay.” 

“I’m really not.” And he laughed, wheezing with it before sucking in a short breath. “I’m not fucking okay and neither is Dean, really. It’s been nearly six months, Sam. Six  _months_.” 

“He’s got a lot to mend,” Sam said. “Probably doesn’t even know where to start and he’s afraid, you know? Can you blame him?” 

“No,  _no,_ ” groaned out quietly so as not to disturb Dean; if he could even be disturbed anymore, “Christ, that’s what makes me sick to my stomach. I’m here, complaining, and he’s fighting the war in our living room. He never left it, Sam, and all I can do is  _bitch_. I am sick.” 

There was something relieving about the ability to actually say it on ears that understood. Sam was his brother, Dean’s last line of defense, but at the same time he was the only one who might remotely understand the torment that Dean’s torment put him through. Seeing the man they both loved so dearly wither away into a catatonic stupor while time slipped by without them…that wasn’t something that _anyone_ could take lightly.

Their other friends had stopped coming. After a few episodes of manic terror, Ellen, Jo, Charlie, Pamela, and Ash all figured that Castiel would alert them when Dean “came back.” Bobby still showed up every now and then, but that was more for Castiel’s sake than Dean’s.

And then there was a soothing hand on Castiel’s arm, a hand that promised safety and warmth from which Castiel felt so utterly deprived.

"You aren't sick, Cas," Sam promised. "You're so good with him, you know. You keep him up, awake, eating, and clothed. That's more than most would be able to do. You can bitch a little if you want. We all need to, sometimes."

Castiel could fucking  _shudder_  from so minuscule a touch, really. In a world where the only warmth he had left was his own pillow, always sleeping beside a corpse, a ghost, a wall, this broad hand scathing his skin was more than enough to make petals yearn and stretch for the sun. He bit his own tongue and reigned himself in, flickered eyes down to that palm, and in spite of better judgment laid a hand upon it in an appreciative squeeze. 

“Dean always says you are the logical one.” He smiled weakly. “Thank you, Sam. I’m sorry that you have to see me like this. With your brother in there, looking the way he does, and then hearing me complain… It can’t be easy.” The sigh that escaped Castiel was as hollow as the thuds of his heart. “I just… feel so alone, most days. He doesn’t even look at me. Doesn’t try. If he’s scared to come back, I can understand, but…God, fuck, I don’t know.” 

Absently, his thumb rolled over Sam’s knuckles—making the man twitch beneath his palm. Making  _Castiel_  flinch subtly in his stark realization. He slipped his fingers away like Sam just burned him with a hot iron. Their eyes met, stared, too long was the gaze, and then Castiel felt the heat make his cheeks feel tight. He cleared his throat. 

“Go keep him company? He misses you and you always seem to get a better reaction out of him than I ever could.” Another fact that made Castiel nauseous. He turned his back on Sam to start taking the groceries out. “I’ll get started on dinner.” 

_Please. Go. I can’t have you this close to me._

Honestly, which was worse; a traumatized war veteran's little brother finding pleasure out of making the aching boyfriend flutter? Or a traumatized war veteran's boyfriend yearning for pleasure from the aching little brother? They were both awful and sick, and Castiel was ashamed of himself for even daring to toe these murky waters. It wasn't even romance. It was simple presence, which was perhaps the best indicator as to how deeply both Sam and Castiel were truly suffering.

So Sam left. Out to talk to his brick wall of a brother. To talk about sports and school and a concert that he was going to next week while Castiel grit his teeth and cooked. His ears were tuned to the conversation in the living room, which was alarmingly one-sided until he heard the groggy voice of his fiancé pipe up.

“Why do you even come see me, Sam?”

Oh, lord. Dean tuned in, he did, but only to douse negativity over the air. _Why do you think, you idiot? Maybe there’s a few people who love you or something. Maybe we miss you and want you back and want you home and want to help you through the minefield through which you’re trying to maneuver if you would just let us, Dean Winchester?_

But Sam was a professional and Castiel knew that, and he paused a moment in his automatic chopping of the tomatoes, hoping that this, oh this, would _finally_ be that break, that chink in the armor in which Dean was locked away. Sam could do it, couldn’t he? It was too hopeful, absolutely, but, for Christ’s sake, they had to look to _something._

“Because you’re my brother,” Sam stated easily. His footsteps were just as sure as his words when he came back to Dean, pulled at his own pant legs, and took a seat on a chair beside Dean’s recliner. “Because we’re family. But it’s not just for you that I come here, Dean. I’m here for Cas, too. He misses you. Misses company. I’m not saying you gotta come out if you’re not ready. I’m just saying.” The young man idly rubbed hands along his own thighs as he leaned arms onto his knees, lacing fingers. “Until you come back, I’m gonna do what I can to remind you what’s waiting for you. You and Cas.” 

There was a gap in time, and Castiel was ready at that moment to drop his knife and dart out there to bolster Sam’s words.

"Mmm," hummed his fiancé, and Castiel could imagine his blank and somber face as he leaned back in that chair of his. "Well...Dean 's still hibernating, so you can go and get Cas now and leave me in my cave.”

.. ..

Right. Because Dean wasn’t “inside.” Because his therapists had been encouraging Castiel not to treat Dean like he was inside of some sort of shell only needing to be coaxed out. That wasn’t how it was. But Sam wasn’t at all of those meetings. Sam, the one who meant well, had been the one to slip up.

With shaky hands a teary twitch, Castiel resumed cutting his tomatoes. They were going to have a nice pasta and pie tonight. Nice. It would be nice.

_Nice. Nice. Nicenicenicenicenicenicenicenicenicenicenicenicenicenicenicenicenicenice._

“Sorry,” Castiel heard Sam say with a sigh and imagined the young man patting his brother’s knee. “Didn’t mean to patronize you, Dean. You know that. I’m going to go get a beer. Be right back.” 

And then thundering footsteps were bringing Sam’s arrival back to the kitchen, where Castiel found himself wanting to collapse against that large and warm body, because that body _understood._ Oh, it understood, and it was warm, and it moved and grabbed and hugged and held….

 _Stop._ That couldn’t happen. Sam and Castiel could only cook together in relative silence, both aware of the silly transgressions Sam had just committed, but too bonded by their mutual pain to be upset about something as nominal as _that._ They just cooked, and Dean just sat.

Castiel was the fussy one, rushing around Dean to hand him a fork and knife, run a hand along his shoulders or blond hairs, always touching some part of him while fetching a plateful of spaghetti and a glass. If Sam noticed the vague swim of Castiel’s actions or the wine bottle partially empty, he said nothing. Nothing at all. 

The dinner conversation was carried by Sam and Castiel, of course. And Castiel drank. Drank furiously. Until laughing at Sam’s unfunny jokes was easy and grinning like a loon was feasible without feeling the hurt of otherwise unused muscles. Every so often, he would glance back at Dean and his smile would weaken, but exemplify in simultaneous degree; looking reserved whenever his blue eyes met the blank stare of greens before they were back on the hazel of Sam’s own. Looking back at Dean compelled Castiel to remember his place in all this. What he was and what he’s supposed to be. Nothing if not faithful, ever loyal, and never lonely. 

“Eat up, darling,” Castiel cooed to Dean as he fed him a bit of the warm and sweet pie. It was a grotesque shadow of something that may have been cute one day, a fiancé feeding his lover a forkful of his favorite dessert. Maybe had Dean not been in corpselike stillness and Castiel not been a wavering mess of drunken and emotional overkill. The wine bottle was gone and Castiel was too loud, too comfortable, too open as he fed Dean piece after piece and dropped dangerous kisses along his cheek.

  
Too soon, Sam had to go. Too soon, the warmth had to escape, landing him back into this cold and congealed world with the man he loved dearer than anything in the universe. After that cautious squeeze and _hey, man, hang in there, alright_ to Dean, he and Castiel helped Dean back to his chair and then made their way to the front porch.

Castiel hugged back slowly, softly. Then he curled his arms in impossibly tighter and suddenly hitched in breath before smothering a sigh into the crook of Sam’s neck and God, God, oh  _God_ , it felt good to be held again. 

 

“Shh, hey. Hey.” Sam kept him caged and rubbed a hand along his back. And in a mantra, he breathed in close to Castiel’s ear the words the man clung to through the night from then on, “You’re fine. Everything is gonna be fine. Shh… Shh, Castiel, it’s gonna be okay…” 

 

Lies, but they were lies that Castiel was so eager but too afraid to believe. And when they bade their farewells, Castiel returned to the darkened house with a fresh and leftover kamikazes falling from his face.

 

Dean was supposed to spring up from the couch now. Dean was supposed to rush to him, take him in his arms, plant kisses all over his face because _got you, Cas. I’m not goin’ anywhere, alright? Now quit being a damn sap and kiss me, huh?_ Because that’s who Dean was and that’s how they were. That’s how it was supposed to be—when one was in need, the other came to it.

 

But that was not going to happen tonight. There would be no shared kisses, hushed promises, tender holds. He almost forgot what it felt like to have lips press back against his in reciprocity.

 

Dean was staring at him with unusually alert eyes, as if he could sense with some Freudian or Darwinian impulse that his mate was unhappy, but some impulse that did not reach the conscious.

 

Castiel stared back. Challenging, berating, begging, and coddling all at once until he finally cleared his throat. “I’m drunk,” he announced, as if that might justify any impressions Dean may or may not have formed about the two, smiling as he moved up toward Dean in that damned chair. “Shouldn’ta indulged like that, hmm, shouldn’t I?

 

No, he shouldn’t have, because he was the one that was obligated to be the mother hen. He was the one who had to stay sober and sane and strong because he was pulling weight for so many. And it wasn’t that he was complaining, not at all.

 

He was just drunk, and Dean was just closing back up.

 

Just drunk.

He leaned against the wall and watched Dean. Not sure how long, but only staring abysmally as Dean plummeted back into his catatonic caccoon. Clamming up, locking himself in, never really here, only ever in a land in that godforsaken head of his into a place where Castiel was not invited to follow.  
  
Before he could stop himself, Castiel was traipsing over to Dean, arms ungainly when they came up along the outline of the chai until they came to clumsily encase his lover in their grasp.  
  
He laid his chin upon the top of Dean’s head and sighed. “I wish you would come back.” Words murmured in a soft slur, blowing tufts of blond hair gently. “I wish… I was enough to make coming back worthwhile to you. But I’m not… am I?”

A lazy drag of fingers tracing over a sunken pectoral muscle, pressing softly, wishing he could hold, be held, be free at last.  
  
“I miss you so much.” His lips pressed a promise to Dean’s forehead, then parted. “S’not fair, what you do. Not fair that you go off like that. To either of us. Just not fair.”  
  
And then Castiel slipped away, upstairs to drown himself in sheets and blankets and a drunken sleep, where dreams would hopefully find and follow him. And he left Dean alone in that chair, to follow or to sit. To sink or to swim.


End file.
